You let him down. He tried to protect you, he only ever tried to protect you, and you let him down. He died saving you, died because you didn’t believe him, because you turned your back on him and walked straight into Thomas Morris’s trap.

Jamie rocked back and forth on the edge of his bed, holding his stomach, sobbing as though the world was ending. He would have given everything he had, everything he would ever have, to be able to bring Frankenstein back, even if it was only for long enough to tell him how sorry he truly was. The monster had honored his oath to the Carpenter family to the very last, and Jamie knew he was never going to be able to forgive himself for creating the situation that had put his friend in harm’s way.

For the first time in a long time, Julian Carpenter’s voice popped into Jamie’s head.

He’s gone, son. There’s nothing you can do, except prove him right for believing in you. That’s the best way you can remember him.

Something in his father’s voice calmed Jamie, and a deep resolve settled into his stomach, a resolve to do as his dad suggested, to make the lost monster proud of him; he would never doubt him again.

A knock on the dormitory door roused him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he shouted, his voice unsteady.

The door swung open, and Admiral Seward stepped into the room. The director of Department 19 looked tired, but there was the ghost of a smile on his lined face as he walked down the long dormitory to Jamie’s bunk. He was carrying something in his hand, but he was keeping it hidden behind his back as he walked, and Jamie could not make it out.

“How are you feeling?” asked Seward, as he stopped in front of the bunk.

Jamie handed him Frankenstein’s letter and watched the director’s eyes widen as he read the words the monster had written. He lowered the paper and looked at Jamie with incredible sadness on his face.

“It wasn’t your—” he began, but Jamie interrupted him.

“Yes, it was, sir. We both know it was. But thanks for saying it.”

Seward looked at him for a long moment, then brought the hand from behind his back. Jamie gasped; in the old man’s hand were a small purple box, and the Bowie knife that had once belonged to Quincey Morris.

“May I sit down?” asked Seward.

Jamie nodded, his eyes never leaving the knife. The blade that had pierced Dracula’s heart, that had been passed down through the Morris family, that had been used only hours ago to perform Thomas Morris’s ultimate betrayal.

The director eased himself down onto the bunk beside Jamie and passed him the knife. Jamie held it lightly in his hands, a feeling of revulsion spreading up his spine.

“It was handed to me by the men who brought Tom’s body out of the monastery,” said Seward, gently. “They wanted to know what to do with it. What do you think I should tell them?”

Jamie turned the knife over in his hands. The blade was stained brown with blood and dirt, and the leather of its sheath was worn and battered.

“It belongs with the dead,” said Jamie. “It should go back there.”

A flicker of a smile flashed across Seward’s face, then he gently lifted the knife from Jamie’s hands.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll have it returned to the Fallen Gallery, where it belongs.” The director placed the knife down and handed Jamie the purple box. “The contents of this box, however, I believe belong right here, with you. Open it.”

Jamie lifted the purple lid, and for a moment, his heart stopped.

Inside the box was a circular medal, cast in gold, and engraved with the Department 19 crest. Beneath the crest, where the three Latin words of the Blacklight motto usually stood, were two simple words of English:

FOR GALLANTRY

In the lid lay a square plate of gold on which was inscribed the following:

THE MEDAL OF GALLANTRY, FIRST CLASS

PRESENTED TO

JULIAN CARPENTER

THIS DAY OF OUR LORD

FEBRUARY 19, 2005

“It was found in his quarters after he died,” said Admiral Seward, his voice little more than a whisper. “When an operator dies, there is rarely anyone to pass such things on to. But I held on to it, in case you followed in his footsteps.”

Jamie was still staring at the medal, his throat filled by a lump so large he couldn’t breathe, his face hot, his hands shaking.

“He would have wanted you to have it,” continued Seward. “But more than that, you deserve it for what you did tonight.”

Jamie managed a deep, rattling breath, and felt his composure begin to return. He looked at the director and was shocked to see tears rolling down the old man’s face.

“Your father would have been very proud of you, Jamie,” said Seward. Then he was on his feet, and striding across the dormitory without a backward glance.

Jamie watched him go, watched the door swing shut after him, and lowered himself slowly onto his bunk. He stared at the ceiling above him, his father’s medal gripped tightly in his hands, his mind full of the faces of the lost and the found, and slipped gently into darkness.

FIRST EPILOGUE

Doctor Alan McCall pushed open the door of the Department 19 infirmary, clutching a polystyrene cup of coffee in his hand, and stepped inside. He had been sound asleep in his quarters when the message from the director had beeped across the screen of his handheld console, rousing him.

NEED IMMEDIATE REPORT ON INJURED CIVILIAN MINOR.

McCall had groaned and sat slowly up on the edge of his bed. Matt Browning was still in the coma that he and his staff had induced, a coma from which they were not planning to attempt to wake him from for at least another forty-eight hours. A report would be completely redundant, but the request was from Admiral Seward, and the doctor would do as he was told.

The doctor crossed the infirmary quickly. The beds were all empty; the operator who had been injured in the same recovery that had brought Matt to the Loop had been discharged. They had transfused every drop of blood in his body, flushing out the infected cells before the turn had been able to take hold of his system. It had been touch and go, but the man would make a full recovery; he had been sent to one of the dormitories on the lower levels to rest.

The only patient in the infirmary was the teenage boy. McCall could see the motionless outline of his body behind the frosted glass of the door marked THEATER. He eased open the door and froze, his heart leaping into his throat.

Matt Browning’s eyes were open.

At the sound of the opening door, the teenager slowly turned his pale, waxy face toward the doctor and spoke three words: “Where am I?”

McCall rushed across the room and took Matt’s face gently in his hands. He shone a light into the unprotesting teenager’s eyes, then placed his fingers against the boy’s neck. He felt the steady, rhythmic pulse beneath the skin, and paged the duty nurse to come to the infirmary at once.

“Where am I?” repeated Matt, his voice little more than a whisper.

“You’re safe,” replied McCall, his eyes scanning the screens on the bank of machines that were attached to his patient. “You’re in a safe place.”

The duty nurse hustled into the infirmary, calling Doctor McCall’s name.

“In here,” he shouted, and a moment later, the nurse, a young woman called Cathy who had only been working at the Loop for three months, appeared in the room.

“My God,” she exclaimed, her hand going to her mouth.

“I want blood tests run immediately,” said McCall. “I want you to take it down to the lab yourself and wait there for the results. Understood?”